The redhead’s in her office. She’s looking out through the glass walls, looking out over the newsroom, over all she surveys. It’s her fiefdom. We’re her serfs. She doesn’t know what’s going on. There’s what the redhead knows and what she wants to know. Ian says: ‘Make the fucking call’.

There’s pain in my hands, RSI.

Ian looks at me as I shake my arms.

‘You’ve done it hundreds of times before, no use getting cold feet now. Come on you cowardly sack of shit. Do you want that fuck on The Star to get there first? Make the call.’

Ian walks to the redhead’s office. I see them through the glass. The redhead looks at me, surveys me.

I walk over to Foreign. I ask Sarah to dial the number. She looks pissy.

‘Out again tonight?’ asks John. ‘More bloody showbiz? Three in a row, Dave. Getting to be a habit.’

‘No mate,’ I say. ‘Something else. Need you to make a call.’

‘One of Ian’s calls?’ asks John.

‘Might be,’ I say.

‘Yeah, why not? What’s the number?’

I read him the number. ‘Ask no questions, right?’ says John.

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Quietly, quietly, catchy fucking monkey. I’ll give you a minute to get through, so do it right now, alright?’

‘Alright,’ says John.

Thirty seconds later my phone rings. ‘What the fuck?’ says John. ‘That’s a sick joke, right? Because it’s a fucking good one. Who’d you get to record that message? You’re a sicko, Dave. Fucking good one.’